Fallen Heir
by Lord Kebise
Summary: The tale of the Last Dragon Emperor


Fallen Heir

Markius Catellia Septim. Blood of the Dragon Emperors, last of this once-great line. Yet, still am I denied my birthright, the relighting of the Dragonfires. That is, if they even would light within this travesty of my forefather's glory, the Mede dynasty's Empire. I would be Emperor now, if not for a technicality manipulated by members of the Elder Council to block my ascension in favour of one of their own, one with no knowledge of their many corrupt dealings, skimmed from my parents. But now, before I tell the story of my eventual rise, I must tell of my past.

I was born on the second of Evening Star, 3E 402. My father was a son of the Septim dynasty who had given up his position to marry my mother, the owner of a growing shipping company. They both perished defending their home from dremora during the Battle of the Imperial City, 3E 433. I was left, having killed the last of the group with the help of two legionnaires, a nineteen year old Imperial noble and merchant. That day I naively swore to bring revenge by thwarting Dagon wherever I could. When I learned that the newly christened Martin Septim had died banishing Mehrunes Dagon, my melancholy was slightly lifted in the hopes I could bring about the end of his worship, as if my help was needed in the aftermath of the Oblivion Crisis. That hope was crushed after a trio of Elder Council members who had ironically cheated my parents of nearly all their septims, leaving them nearly unable to rebuild, pushed an ancient law from the days of the Empire's excess of heirs to prevent me from sitting upon the throne. From there, I built up my shipping company, and slowly pressured the group into having to take more and more from the treasury until Councillor Ocato had them imprisoned.

I had always taken an interest in magic, and after the dissolving of the Mages Guild I was able to find a master of Alteration magic, who taught me much, in addition to using my fortune to find other knowledge, and from a series of tomes I gleamed the secret of nigh-eternal life - slowing the rate at which my body ages, in turn greatly extending my lifespan. I have since been performing this ritual, and after learning something of enchanting, bound it into a ring. It has since been working admirably, as the day I pen this is my two hundred and twentieth anniversary, as I have decided to begin keeping a journal of sorts.

At the beginning of the Great War, I was placed under pronounced scrutiny by the Penitus Oculatus, in addition to the spying of the Synod and College of Whispers, due both to my heritage and obvious longlivety, in order. Interestingly, though not surprisingly, the Vigilants of Stendarr have been trying to have me executed for the last century or so, under suspicion of being a vampire. I found it a little insulting that the Emperor thought I might be trying to usurp him. If I had wanted to, the middle of a war against half the continent would be the last time I would choose. By this point, I was a member of the Elder Council, despite constant pressure by various political groups to retire. When the Imperial City was attacked, I was unwilling to leave with the other members, the cowards. Instead, I gathered those I could in the Tower Library, hoping that the Thalmor would be sated with the capture of the city. I was wrong. They burst in, and despite us being unarmed and willing to treatise with them, mascaraed the Moth Priest guardians, and threw many of the others I had gathered off the Tower. I alone survived, as a reward had been given for the capture of any Council members, alive only. They had planned to hold me hostage to delay any attack, but after learning of the dislike for me from the other Councillors decided to execute me at some later date. That was not to come. I was, by design, placed in a cell that held a secret escape route, believed destroyed after the Oblivion Crisis. The truth is, it had been rebuilt. I went through into a small armoury in the cellars of the White-Gold Tower, and after equipping myself, found the hidden exit leading from the sewers to my house, only to see a city in flames. My house had all but been burnt to the ground, leaving only stonework. The entire district was empty, being home to some of the richest men in the Empire. Now it was home only to corpses. The ports too were aflame, and from a broken gap in the walls I could see my warehouses being plundered, along with many others. I slowly made my way down, stole a small boat, and escaped to Skingrad, which after a short siege had been left only with a token force of Thalmor, as the people had accepted their defeat of the Imperial garrison there, and little had changed. I stayed there for a time, given refuge by the Count, an old friend of mine, and then, after the signing of the Concordat, left to take my revenge. I found the commander who had killed the Moth Priests in the library, and killed her and her officers in their sleep. The Thalmor now knew of me, and stole what remained of my company. So, tired and penniless, I decided to find greener pastures- hopefully ones without Thalmor. I found Skyrim.


End file.
